


Strange Bedfellows

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, But Still Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to black sex, Heterosexuality, Homosexuality, Ironic References, Jazz Clubs, Multi, Not Your Usual Crack, Pairings That Never Happen, Period Typical Medical Treatments, Philosophical Crack, Post Series, Post-Canon, Postpartum Depression, Psychological Crack, Psychological WTF, Secrets, Tawdry Clubs, Utter Crack Pairing, Who Did What Now, canon pairings - Freeform, character illness, cocktails, gay clubs, how did that happen, near misses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: Every once in awhile something happens that makes perfect sense at the time, but five minutes later leaves you wondering "What the hell was that?"Should you live to be a hundred, you will likely never figure out the answer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This exists because I woke up with the basic premise running through my head off and on for a month. Writing was the only way to get it out. 
> 
> Many thanks to Hinny_B and my other beta readers. Without them this would not only be crack, it would be unreadable crack.

“Are you certain you should be going out this late, m’lady? Perhaps you should stay home and rest.”

Lady Mary Crawley glanced at her maid’s reflection in the mirror and tried to smile. The tight line of her lips was more grimace than grin, however, even if she did manage to get it to turn up at the edges. “I’m supposed to be distracting myself, Anna,” she reminded the other woman. “Not relaxing. We’ve tried relaxing and it didn’t work.” She fit her second earring into her ear, paused to assess the overall look, and started pulling on her gloves. “Besides, it’s simply a few cocktails at a club. It will keep me out, but it shouldn’t be too taxing.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Anna bowed, her eyes lowered, but still didn’t seem much at ease with the idea.

Honestly, Mary couldn’t blame her. It was midnight, well beyond when both of them would normally be in bed, and while there were still aristocratic houses where one could expect to dance until dawn regularly, it was an odd hour to be stepping out. Still, as long as she could claim she was following the doctor’s (admittedly reluctant) orders, no one could question her too heavily. She held out her arms and let Anna help her into her coat, then turned to meet the other woman’s eyes with another attempt at a smile. This one came closer, but it was still far from happy. “Don’t wait up for me. I can get myself into my own nightgown, and your family will want to see you at breakfast in the morning.”

“I don’t think Danny would realize if I had a lie in,” Anna demurred with a smile of her own, although her voice was all warmth for her son. “But Mr. Bates will appreciate it.”

“He may not be a year old yet, but Danny knows you more than my children know me,” Mary replied, trying not to sound sick as she said it. “As well he should. You’re a good mother.”

All trace of smile vanished from Anna’s face as she insisted, “So are you, m’lady.”

“Perhaps.” With a forced shrug, Lady Mary started for the door. “Now I should be going, while I can still get a car.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Anna stood back with a bow, letting her leave the room unimpeded. 

At this late hour, there was no one to watch Lord Grantham’s eldest daughter sweep through the halls of Grantham house, her head held high and the candle light catching on her earrings and beaded headband. The hall boys were still up and about, she knew, but they had yet to make their way to the family’s sleeping quarters. There was certainly no one to hold the main door for her, so she eased it open herself and slipped out into the chilly November night. Barrow would have long since locked up by the time she got home (in fact, he might have done already. She suspected he’d be stepping out a bit himself, since they were in town), but she had a spare key tucked away safely in her purse. So long as she was home before the scullery maid rose for the day, there would be no one to tell how long she’d been out.

The prospect was both liberating and terrifying. For a moment she stood on the stoop, frozen in place. Part of her desperately wanted to turn, to let herself back into the house, to call Anna back, take her sleeping medication and go to bed. Part of her was frantic to be anywhere except her own bedroom, in her own, otherwise empty bed. 

Closing her eyes and drawing a deep, bracing breath, she reminded herself of what she’d said to Anna. She was here to be distracted, and this was a distraction. A distraction from the deep, gnawing hollowness that had filled her since Elizabeth’s birth. A distraction from the choking horror that threatened to swallow her every time she thought she might never see her husband again. She opened her eyes, walked down the stairs to the curb side and hailed a passing cab.

If nothing else, she’d made a promise, and she always kept her promises.

“Where to, m’lady?” the driver asked.

“The Blue Dragon,” Mary replied as she settled her coat around her on the seat. If the driver had any questions or qualms about driving an aristocrat to Soho at that time of night, he kept them to himself. Instead he pulled away from the curb and left his passenger to her own thoughts.

For her part, Lady Mary stared out the window at the street lamps in the darkness and tried not to brood. Normally, the family wouldn’t have been anywhere near London in November. When they did come down for the season, it wasn’t until spring when everyone was in town. With money getting tighter and no one in the family coming out, it had become rare that they stayed until the end of things. They wouldn’t have been there now if it weren’t for Mary’s health.

It had all started with the birth of her daughter. Born late and breeched, Elizabeth had seemed as reluctant to come into the world as George had been eager. Once she was there, however, she’d done quite well. Lady Mary, on the other hand, had found herself as out of sorts as she had after Matthew had died. She couldn’t sleep properly, to the point where Anna had to apply to Doctor Clarkson for a sleeping remedy. She wasn’t interested in anything. There were points where she found herself yelling or bursting into tears for no reason at all. When consulted both Doctor Clarkson and cousin Isobel had admitted that it was not unusual for women to go through a period of emotional instability after child birth. Upon reflection, they’d both thought it likely that this had been part of her difficulty when George was born (overshadowed by her grief for Matthew), and advised that she be given plenty of room and be allowed to relax. Normally Doctor Clarkson would have suggested sending her to the country, but as she was already there that hadn’t seemed quite the thing. The sea shore had been suggested, Scarborough, or Brighton, if they wanted to go further, but Mary hadn’t wanted to travel. Peevish at the thought of tip toeing around, generally hoping that his daughter would get better sooner rather than later, her father had asked if there wasn’t a more active treatment that might be tried. Upon being told that the most advanced treatments included tying the new mother into bed and giving her tepid baths, Lord Grantham had decided that relaxation was probably the best option after all.

It hadn’t seemed to work any better the second time around than the first. Her father had fussed impotently, as he always did when he felt helpless, and her mother had soothed him, as she always did when he fussed. She’d tried soothing Mary too, but it hadn’t helped. Tom had encouraged his sister-in-law to go on with her agenting and push through the melancholy, but she generally found herself disinclined. Avoiding her children had made her feel guilty, supporting her growing conviction that she was a terrible mother (something not helped by watching Anna with her son), but oddly being around them hadn’t done anything to lessen the feeling.

The only thing that had helped was Henry. 

Mary wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could recapture the feeling of her husband holding her. It was an unconscious movement. If she’d thought about it, she’d have chided herself for being ridiculous. After all, the back of a London cab was not her bed, and there was no comparing her own, slender arms to his, well toned through mechanics work and cricket matches. Unable to follow through on the doctor’s orders and simply avoid his wife when she was obviously miserable, he had, on several occasions, slipped from his own room to hers, holding her until the drugs did their work. It hadn’t been a cure, but it was the closest she’d come to feeling herself. She wasn’t certain, but she thought she might actually have been making progress.

Then came the trip to America. They had planned it for months. It was, technically, a business trip, allowing him to build connections for Talbot and Branson motors. They were to go together and she would spend the month visiting with Rose while Henry was in meetings and Atticus at work. At night there would be trips to the theater, dinner, that sort of thing, all of which was, of course, far too exciting for a woman in Mary’s condition. 

Henry had wanted to cancel the trip. Mary had refused to hear of such a thing, insisting that his business was far more important than her passing melancholy. There had been the suggestion that Tom go instead, but he had taken over as estate agent full time while Mary was recovering. He’d also wanted to be there as Sybbie started the school year. In the end, with greatest reluctance, Henry had sailed for New York, promising to write frequently.

Mary had lived for those letters. While Anna had smiled wanly and insisted she thought her employer was improving, Mary had felt like she was going backwards, perking up only when Barrow handed her an envelope with her husband’s familiar handwriting on it. It had continued on that way until the week before Henry was scheduled to return, when he handed her a telegraph, not from Henry, but from Rose. 

Henry had caught a cold and would be unable to travel until he’d recovered.

By the end of the week, word came that the cold had become pneumonia and he might not survive.

Not even Anna could pretend that Mary’s condition hadn’t immediately worsened. Her father had, predictably, called Doctor Clarkson on the carpet, threatening a second opinion. It was only the assurance from both Lord and Lady Merton that the good Doctor was right and any second opinion would involve an asylum that stopped him. (Then again, perhaps it was his wife promising never to forgive him if he got their eldest daughter institutionalized.) It had been a last ditch suggestion of Doctor Clarkson’s that perhaps, since relaxation wasn’t working and the more modern medical techniques were unacceptable, they might try taking Mary to London. The reasoning was that in London there would be things to distract her from her melancholy.

Lord Grantham had not liked the idea. Lady Grantham had not liked the idea. It was fairly obvious, from his own reluctance, that Doctor Clarkson had not liked the idea. In fact, the only person who seemed genuinely supportive of the plan was Tom, and Mary half suspected that was because he was sick of seeing her mope around the house and would rather be alone with Sybbie. 

So it was that most of the household had packed up and relocated to Grantham House. There was still enough permanent staff in London for Mrs. Hughes to stay behind with her husband, the maids, and the hall boys. There had been some debate over whether or not to bring Andrew, but they decided if they were going to host any dinners, they really should have their footman. Once settled, they’d wasted no time learning who was in town, what plays were being presented at the theaters, and which new shops had been worth visiting.

The best anyone could say was that Mary hadn’t gotten worse.

In the back of the cab, Mary pulled away from the window which was letting the November chill seep through, and glared at the bright lights of the Soho district as if they were responsible for her unhappiness. She was tired of it all, really. Tired of not feeling like herself. Tired of feeling like she might break at any minute. Tired of having no interest and no energy. She wanted to feel alive again, and so it was that when the cab pulled up in front of the Blue Dragon, she paid her fare and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk with the determined air of someone on the brink of a battle. 

She stood for a moment, watching the stream of gaily dressed men and women entering the club. Despite the cold that called for thick, winter coats, the women all sported headbands that hinted at beaded dresses with short hemlines, the sort made to swing when one danced. They made her think of Rose. She knew there were clubs like this in America (that was where jazz came from, after all). Looking up at the illuminated sign above the Blue Dragon’s door, she wondered if her bright, vivacious cousin had ever actually been in one. It was doubtful. After all, there were limits to everything. There had to be a limit to even Rose’s boldness.

Once the cab had pulled away from the curbside and there was no one to question her asking to be delivered to the club, but not going in, Mary turned and walked down Greek street. As she went, she questioned her own boldness. After all, the Blue Dragon was a far cry from where she was headed. It sat there, announcing its presence to the world in bold letters. No one paused at the door, whispering odd phrases given to them by complete strangers to get inside. 

I don’t like the linen selection, she thought to herself, making certain she had the phrasing down. Have you nothing gayer? Perhaps with paste stones? Yes, she was certain that was the way she was supposed to say it, although why anyone would put jewels, paste or not, on linen she had no idea. It seemed ridiculous. Then again, perhaps that was the point.

Between Greek street and Dean street there was another illuminated sign throwing its light over the men and women who passed beneath it. Mary paused on the far side of the street, watching the people enter The Cabinet. They were mostly couples, although she did see one man slip through the door unaccompanied, and somehow they seemed more tawdry than the clientele of the Blue Dragon. Then again, perhaps that was simply her nerves speaking. Still, she wished this meeting could have taken place in the downstairs bar at the Ritz, but she’d been assured only men went there. Besides, she was more likely to be recognized. No one should recognize her in Soho, and even if they did, what of it? No one who mattered would admit to having been there anyway.

Wrapping herself in her anonymity, she crossed the street and entered the club. 

She didn’t quite know what she’d been expecting, but somehow, the interior of The Cabinet wasn’t it. The lighting was low, despite the profusion of lanterns, and lent everything an intimate air. The tables were respectable, the dancing less so. It was far from empty, the lively music soaring over the din of polite conversation and easy laughter as people placed orders and sipped drinks. If Mary peered into the corners of the room, she could see men and women leaning far too close together, and she couldn’t see their hands to be certain there wasn’t worse than leaning going on. Still, it was nowhere near the den of iniquity she hadn’t realized she anticipated. 

The thought was strangely comforting.

Sequestering herself against the outer wall, Mary contemplated her next move. It had been suggested that she move slowly, possibly take a table and have a drink or two, before moving deeper into the club. She had to admit, it was tempting, especially as a waiter brought a decidedly pink concoction to the table nearest her. Cocktails had never caught on at Downton after the Larry Grey disaster before she and Matthew were married, but she’d enjoyed them elsewhere and that one looked fascinating. It would also, undoubtedly, soothe her nerves.

On the other hand, no one else was alone at a table. Even the man she’d spotted earlier was nowhere to be seen. After a moment’s debate, she decided she could sooth her nerves elsewhere. Mind made up, she located the curtained hallway she’d been told was on the far side of the bar and made for that. 

The hall beyond the curtain was just shy of dingy. The lighting was still low, but it didn’t feel as intentional as it had in the club proper. The paper on the walls wanted changing and the carpeting was even worse. Praying that she’d not somehow gotten the wrong hallway, Mary made her way to the end. There were a series of doors on her right which she ignored, pausing only when a bright peel of female laughter issued from behind one of them. She continued on, eventually reaching the end of the hallway where a man in black tie stood guarding a pair of double doors that clearly lead to the kitchen.

“I’m afraid you’ve taken a wrong turn, miss,” he informed her, looking her over in a manner that made her inclined to agree.

Still, of all the women in the world, Lady Mary Crawley was not one to be intimidated. “I have a complaint,” she informed him, sounding very much as if she meant it. “I don’t like the linen selection.”

The man’s eyebrows arched and he looked her over again. “Really, miss? What would you prefer?”

“Have you nothing gayer?” she asked, as if she did such things every day and was used to being questioned by the staff of Soho night clubs. “Perhaps with paste stones?” The fellow continued to look somewhat askance at her and she wondered if she’d remembered it wrong. Then again, he seemed to be most taken with her clothing. Perhaps she should have worn something else. She’d heard somewhere that women in this sort of establishment wore suits, the same as the men. Perhaps she should have seen about borrowing some of the livery (although none of it would have fit and she had no idea how she’d have managed to have it adjusted without someone getting suspicious).

Finally, after what seemed like far too long scrutinizing her, the man smirked and moved away from his post to the last of the doors on the right. “Of course, miss,” he almost laughed. “I’m certain you’ll prefer the decorations in here.”

Beginning to wish she’d stopped and had that cocktail after all, Mary followed him through the door. There, her courage almost broke. The room she found herself was small and as tawdry as she could have imagined. The walls were hung with faded, red velvet curtains and paintings that mocked good taste. The lighting was dim enough that you couldn’t see the carpet clearly, which Mary suspected she was grateful for. The only furnishing was a couch quite large enough to double as a bed. Plastering a smile on her face, determined not to seem shocked, Mary quipped, “I’d wager that sees a lot of use.”

Her guide was now standing by the wall, next to a picture that would have been a perfectly quaint pastoral scene, if the shepherd and milk maid had been had been engaged in less obscene activities. He glanced as the couch. “A fair amount,” he agreed, as he reached his hand up behind the picture’s frame. There was a slight click and to his right the curtains moved. “But you’ll be more interested in what’s downstairs.”

For a moment, Mary hesitated, uncertain whether she was supposed to push the curtains aside or if he would. Then their eyes met, his seeming to laugh quietly at her, daring her not to turn tail and run. Notching her chin upward, she crossed the room, pushed through the velvet, and found herself facing an open door that would have been near impossible to detect had it been closed. Beyond it was a long staircase, steep and lit by only one bare bulb, much like the one leading to the storage attics at Downton. Without hesitation, she started down, one hand on the rail for balance, careful of her footing. The stairwell curved and as she rounded the bend, she saw another door at the bottom, guarded by another well dressed man. He didn’t speak or seem at all surprised, as the man upstairs had, when she walked up to him and said, “Show me the good linen.” He simply bowed, opened the door, and ushered her through.

She was met by music and laughter and the clinking of glasses. The scene before her mirrored the one in the club above, the tables arranged the same, the musicians playing the same music, and the couples doing the same dances. At a glance, nothing at all was different. Then she peered into the shadowed corners to where men sat at tables, not only leaning in too closely, but caught up in each other’s arms and kissing. She watched the dancers and realized that among the vividly swirling dresses, there were slender figures, far too slender to be men, in suits. Turning toward the bar, she inadvertently caught the eye of another woman, one with bobbed blond hair who looked at her as if she might be a dessert worth trying.

With a confident twist of her lips and her head held high, Mary ignored the blond completely and started for an empty table. After all, she was Lady Mary Crawley. She undoubtedly outranked everyone else in the club and she was jolly well going to make certain everyone knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

She had been waiting for an hour. The pink drink that she’d seen upstairs turned out to be something named after the actress Mary Pickford. She’d had two. Three other women, two in dresses and one in a rather natty suit that still looked like she’d borrowed it from a younger brother, had come past and tried to flirt. She’d told them she was waiting for someone and they’d gone again. The one in the suit had come back for another try.

Mary was thoroughly annoyed. Being fashionably late was something she understood quite well, but an hour was beyond the pale. It was increasingly difficult, as each song ended, to applaud rather than drum her fingers on the table. She could feel people looking at her as she continued to sit, alone, at her table. She could have sworn she heard her name in the nearby conversation, but of course, that was ridiculous. There was no one here she recognized, and no one who would recognize her. Still, she wasn’t imagining the appraising looks she was garnering with increasing frequency as the night wore on. Some came from other women. Some came from the men. She had no idea why men would be looking at her here of all places, but all of the looks reminded her of the fellow upstairs. Amused. Challenging. As if they knew she didn’t belong here.

She notched her chin higher and made certain they knew she was ignoring them. She had as much right to be in this disreputable little hole in the ground as any of them and she was not going to be driven out. On the other hand, she wasn’t certain how long she was going to be able to sit there doing nothing before she snapped. She had been promised a distraction. She had been promised dancing and company and conversation, not an hour of silent critique from strangers. At this point, if the woman in the suit came back, she’d probably offer her a seat or demand a dance, just to have something to do beyond sit and drink and feel faintly ill. 

When she noticed the woman in question had found a partner and was dancing, she stood, with half a mind to try cutting in. Instead, she squared her jaw, turned, and headed to the bar for another drink. If someone else had taken her table when she got back, at least she’d have someone to talk to.

The man at the bar was flirting with another fellow, one old enough to surprise her a little bit, when Mary walked up. Before she could say anything he noticed her and left off his conversation, despite the obvious annoyance of his companion. “What can I get you, miss?”

“A Mary Pickford.” Mary set her empty glass down for him to refill, then turned her attention to the bottles behind the bar. She supposed she could have tried something else, but she found the sweetness of the drink uplifting and something about the colour amused her. Alone and completely out of her depth, she needed all of the amusement she could get. 

She was watching the bartender gather the bottles to make her drink when a voice to her right asked, “Lady Mary?”

Any relaxing effect the previous two cocktails might have had on her immediately vanished. She whipped her head around with enough force it threatened to dislodge her headband, trying to breathe around a sudden wave of panic. “Barrow.”

Another time, the expression of stunned bewilderment on her butler’s normally blank face might have made her laugh. He stared at her for a moment, mouth slightly agape, then glanced to the side with the air of a man trying to figure out how he’d fallen down a rabbit hole without noticing. When no rabbits in waistcoats appeared to give him advice, he looked back at her and asked, still cautiously, as if he might, somehow, have gotten the wrong person, “What are you doing here?”

It was an innocent question, devoid of accusation or insinuation that she’d done something wrong, but it still served to snap her out of her surprise and bring her on the defensive. “That’s none of your business,” she replied in the sharpest, most imperious tone she could muster. “And if you tell a soul you saw me here, I shall see you sacked.”

She hadn’t properly finished the last word before she regretted it. Between one breath and the next, Barrow’s face completely shut down, replaced by the unfeeling, porcelain mask he wore at the dinner table. Mary hadn’t realized that his tone had been surprisingly warm until he spoke again and that warmth was replaced with ice. “Of course, m’lady. I apologize.” He sketched a short bow. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.” Picking up his own drink, he turned to leave her once again alone in this unfamiliar territory.

The defenses that had been so strong a moment ago crumbled, leaving Mary vulnerable, the hollowness of the past months threatening to swallow her again. She became sharply aware of her surroundings, of the bartender who had stopped working on her drink and was now watching her with the same mask Barrow wore, of the people dancing in the distance, of the older man behind her who may or may not have heard the exchange. What was she thinking, threatening a man’s job in a place like this? This was his territory, not hers. She shot out a hand and grabbed at the butler’s sleeve. “Barrow, wait, no. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Barrow paused, turning just far enough to look down at her hand and then meet her eyes. His servant’s blank didn’t shift. “It’s quite all right, m’lady. I forgot my place.”

“No you didn’t, I forgot mine,” Mary insisted. “You have more right to be here than I do.” Feeling willing to do almost anything to keep him from walking away and leaving her waiting for someone she was increasingly convinced wasn’t coming, she lowered her voice, as close to pleading as she could bring herself. “Please stay.”

For a moment it seemed like he’d refuse. He looked out over the tables and dancing, as if searching for someone. Then, with a sigh, he turned all the way back to face her. “If I do, will you tell me why you’re here?”

She nodded, relaxing her grip on his arm. He met the bartender’s eye and gave a short nod. Apparently that was some sort of sign that all was well, because the man went back to fixing her drink. “You find us a table, tucked away from things a bit, if you can manage,” Barrow instructed, his tone soft, but brooking no argument. “I’ll bring the drinks.”

Still shaken and a little afraid that if she turned her back, he’d vanish, Mary did something rather strange for her. She did what she was told. Admittedly, most of the tables on the fringes of things were taken by couples who had obvious reasons for wanting privacy. Struck by the thought that perhaps Barrow already had a table and might, in fact, have been there with someone, she turned and looked back to the bar. He was still there, patiently waiting for the bartender to finish his work. A couple of minutes later she’d found a table and he was making his way toward her, drinks in both hands.

She’d taken her drink from him and had a healthy swallow before she remembered that here he wasn’t her servant and handing her drinks was not his job. “Thank you,” she added belatedly.

Apparently the thanks had not been necessary, as he looked mildly startled. “You’re welcome, m’lady,” he replied, sitting and fishing his cigarette case and lighter from his pocket. “Now,” he met her eyes and made an expansive gesture, inviting her to start explaining herself.

It was very easy to say that she would tell him her woes in a place like this, but she found it was much harder to actually do. She met his eyes for a moment, then glanced away. She thought that the couple at a table near them had been casting odd looks in their direction, hastily turning away to avoid detection, but she couldn’t say for certain. “Are we allowed to be talking like this here? I mean, we clearly aren’t…that is you’re a man and I’m…”

“It’s a bit odd,” Barrow allowed, “But nothing that should raise alarm. After all, you talk to people you know. Besides, not everyone who makes there way down here belongs. You get a sightseer every once in awhile, someone who hears something from someone and is curious. For the most part you can count on them to keep their mouths shut, because if they go to the police, they have to admit they were here, don’t they?”

“I suppose so.” She hesitated, then asked, uncertain if the idea relieved or insulted her. “Is that why they keep looking at me? Because they can tell I don’t belong here?”

The question earned her an arch look. “Might be. It’s what I told the bartender to smooth things over. Generally speaking, though, it’s probably more to do with the way you’re dressed. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you’re easily the best, or at least the most expensively, dressed woman here.”

Mary blinked, looking around at the other women in their short, swinging dresses, then down at herself. She supposed she did rather stand out. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“How many of the girls have made a bid for you?” he asked, his voice laced with sly curiosity.

“Three.”

“Hm,” he seemed mildly surprised by the answer. “I’d have thought it would be more. Normally money attracts people in places like this. Not necessarily the sort of attention you’d want,” he added. “But maybe they do take you for an outsider.” 

Mary still wasn’t certain how she felt about that. She felt like an outsider, of course. She was an outsider. But perversely, she didn’t want to be an outsider, or at least not viewed as one. The whole thing gave her a headache. She watched him blow a plume of smoke into the air and asked, “Do you mind if I have one?”

Barrow looked first at her, then at his cigarette, the confusion once again evident. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he replied, carefully, forgetting the ‘m’lady’. 

Mary found she didn’t mind the lapse. “I don’t, but Henry does and, well. I want one is all.” She glanced down at her drink.

He shrugged and let her help herself from the cigarette case. “When you breathe in, try not to take a deep breath,” he advised as he held out his lighter. “Try to just pull the smoke into your mouth and hold it a bit, then blow it out. Too much and you’ll just wind up choking.” It was easier said than done and she wound up sputtering a little, but her efforts still earned a smile. “Not bad, first time out of the gate.”

“Thank you,” she returned the smile with a weak laugh. A deep breath of fresh air, a sip of her cocktail, and another, more successful drag of smoke, and she felt nearly ready to start. “I’m not pulling you away from anyone, am I?” she asked, settling her earlier thoughts and making one last dodge.

There was actually a hint of laughter in the reply. “No, you’re not. I just came for a few drinks and a bit of society, if I could find it. No one’s caught my interest, at least no one who wasn’t already taken.”

“Right then,” Mary nodded. “I suppose it’s no secret that I’ve not been doing well since Elizabeth was born, and even less so since Henry left. I know you’ve all been told not to upset me or cause me excitement or anything like that.” The observation earned her a silent nod. “Well, the thing is that I’m getting tired of it. Not simply tired of everyone tip toeing around me as if I might break, but tired of feeling like I might actually do so. I want to feel like myself again, like I can stand on my own two feet and get in an argument with Granny and not burst into tears. I’m used to knowing what I’m thinking and feeling in control of my life. This…unshakable melancholy, and for no reason, really, is infuriating.”

Barrow thought about it and gave a lenient shrug indicating, at the very least, that he didn’t find that unbelievable. 

“Anyway, before he left we, Henry and I, that is, did not follow Doctor Clarkson’s instructions as well as we might have. He’d spend nights in my room, not doing anything,” she gave the butler a hard look, as if daring him to question the truthfulness of that claim. “Just holding me and telling me how much he loved me and wished I was happy again. It wasn’t a cure, obviously, but it helped. I don’t know why, really, but it did.” She trailed off for a moment, sipping at her drink and trying to puzzle through an answer to that question, why.

Surprisingly, Barrow was the one that supplied it. “Not unreasonable. During the war, if you looked into the right fox hole at the right time, you’d find blokes cozied up together. Not one who would turn up here, mind, just normal men, but they were scared and lonely enough that they needed someone, anyone, to hold on to. Didn’t make the war go away, but it helped.”

For a moment, Mary simply stared at him. Then, to her horror, she felt herself start to laugh. It was the most inappropriate sound she could think of, given the conversation, but she couldn’t stop. Before long she was collapsed against the table, half laughing, half sobbing, trying to keep her eyes from misting over. Barrow watched her as if she’d lost her mind, until she was more tears than mirth, then he went reaching for his handkerchief. By the time she finally calmed down, she was gasping for air, and certain her makeup was ruined. “I’m sorry,” she managed, wiping the streaks of wet from her cheeks. “It’s just, that’s the first time anyone’s seemed to understand. Everyone else has been so concerned and condescending and all of that, I’ve felt like I was going insane.” She managed a watery smile as she handed the handkerchief back.

“Oh, well,” Barrow replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It suddenly occurred to Mary that he frequently looked uncomfortable being thanked or complimented for things he’d done. Other times, he looked extremely pleased. She wondered at the inconsistency. “Just stating the facts, as I see them.”

“You always were observant.” Taking a sip of her drink and an increasingly comfortable drag on her cigarette, she continued. She had to admit, it did help steady her. “Anyway, needless to say with Henry gone, I’ve not felt half so supported or cared for, no matter how anyone tries. And knowing that I may never see him again…”

“Anyone would be upset by that, m’lady.”

“Anyone who had a heart to care,” Mary agreed. “But I have to keep believing, don’t I? I have to be strong and grown up.” 

“And all you want is someone to hold you and take some of the burden?” Barrow guessed.

Mary nodded. “Exactly. It’s not that I’m some little girl frightened of monsters under the bed. I’m a grown woman, I’ve lived through worse than this. I know I can do it I just, for once, don’t want to have to do it alone. But Mama and Papa don’t understand. Even with Tom and Granny, it’s not the same as Henry holding me. And you can’t just find some good looking stranger and ask him to hold you, he’ll always expect that things will eventually go beyond holding, and I am not having an affair with another man. That is for women who are in unhappy relationships and don’t love their husbands. I adore Henry.” Mary hesitated, trying to figure out how to tell the next part without sounding hypocritical, fast, or insane. “The thing is, the other night at the Grenville’s dinner party, I met someone interesting.”

Barrow’s eyebrows both arched and Mary was frightfully certain she was blushing. “No one I’d know, I assume.”

“I don’t know, actually. You might, or at least know of her. Her name is Lorena Halloway. She’s an actress.”

“I’ve come across the name,” Barrow replied, his expression still knowing. “She’s always sounded like one of those women who wears men’s clothing and talks about the most recent works by obscure, scandalous female writers.”

The description of the woman she had, admittedly, only met twice and known for a few hours at most, made Mary smile.”An apt description. She also has red hair, very lovely eyes, and is a terrible flirt. I should know, she spent the majority of our first meeting making eyes at me when no one else was looking.” 

“Your first meeting?” The butler was sounding more and more like a gossiping school girl with every detail. “You’ve met her again?”

“Well, a first meeting does imply a second.” Mary really hoped she wasn’t blushing as badly as it felt like she was. “We had lunch the next day. It was quite nice, actually. I’d not told her about Henry in any great detail at the time, other than letting her know I was married and that he was in America, so she talked to me as if I were a normal person, not some invalid who needed special care. And she kept flirting, which made me feel better, somehow, as if I were still a living woman rather than some animate corpse. Then she suggested that we meet tonight, when she was through with rehearsal, for some cocktails and dancing.” 

“Possibly a bit more?”

Mary frowned, trying to sort through her own thoughts on the matter. “Not likely,” she decided. “Perhaps a kiss, but I wouldn’t have expected it to go further. Even if it did, though, it’s not really an affair, is it? Not the way it would be with a man. I couldn’t end up pregnant, for starters, and I’m certainly not going to run off to some Bohemian lifestyle with an actress!” She laughed at the very thought. “No, at it’s worse it would be something transient, something to get me through until Henry made it back.” She very deliberately didn’t think about the possibility that wouldn’t happen.

“I see.” While Barrow still seemed amused by the whole thing, he at least didn’t question her logic or her motives. Instead he asked, “So, when is she scheduled to arrive?”

“An hour ago.”

“Oh.” The sharpness of her tone was clearly not lost on her companion. Barrow frowned and took a rather healthy swallow of his own drink. Hesitantly he said, “Well, I’ve known a couple of actors in my time. The theater is a profession that tends to draw this sort of crowd, after all,” he gestured to the room around them, “And I’ve noticed that rehearsals have a nasty habit of running over. Of course, a place like this, you can’t very well ring ahead and say you’re going to be a touch late. So, more often than not, you plan on meeting an actor somewhere and just when you’re about to give it up as a bad job, they come rushing in apologizing left and right and cursing the director’s name.” He pointed his cigarette at her, as if for emphasis, and added, “And believe me, sailors have nothing on an upset actor. I’ve heard some truly impressive things about the lineage and hygiene of directors.” 

The image of some poor actor falling over himself to stay in Barrow’s good graces at least made Mary laugh a little. “Perhaps. Perhaps that’s all it is. But it’s making me annoyed and I don’t need to be annoyed right now. It’s the last thing I need. I need to be talking and dancing and,” she frowned and looked around, “And generally not thinking too directly about where I am. I’d thought the risk of being recognized was low enough, but then I ran into you and now…now I’m just not certain. And when I think of those rooms upstairs!” A thought occurred to her, scandalous and horrifying and, on some level, a little bit delicious. “There aren’t rooms like that down here, are there?”

Barrow cleared his throat and hid a smile behind his hand, or tried to. “Talking to you might not be so far out of the ordinary, m’lady,” he confided, his tone absolutely wicked, “But if I took you down the back hall, well. That would raise a few eyebrows.”

“That’s the most vulgar thing I think I’ve ever heard of,” Mary replied. She looked around the room and huffed, “Why on earth can’t Lorena show up?”

“Why? You want to see down the back hallway?” Barrow laughed at her.

Mary thought about it a second, then replied, “Yes, actually. Now that you’ve said that I’m terribly curious. Perhaps I can find someone else to show me. There was one woman earlier who seemed quite interested and was reasonably attractive.” She started to cast about for the woman in the suit from earlier, then remembered she’d found another partner. Still, there was a woman headed for the bar who was easy to look at. 

“I think perhaps you should call it a night, m’lady,” Barrow informed her, his tone serious despite the fact he was still smiling. “I believe you’ve had quite enough.”

Mary turned her attention to him, all indignation. “I’m not drunk.”

Barrow eyed her drink, clearly skeptical. “How many of those have you had?”

“This is my third.” 

“All right, I’ll believe you,” Barrow allowed, “But if nothing else I’d make that your last. Take it from me, those sneak up on you. Too many more and you’ll think you’re right as rain until you try to stand up and suddenly your legs don’t work.”

Mary considered him a moment, her eyes narrowed. “You still think I’m drunk.”

“M’lady…”

“I am not drunk.”

“M’lady, you have just informed me that you are attracted to women and are considering allowing a complete stranger to show you the back rooms of this club,” Barrow reminded her, his voice the patient, coaxing tone he sometimes used when telling the children that he really did need to get back to work. 

Mary was having none of it. “And? I have to be drunk to find women attractive?”

“No, but the fact you’re telling me is a bit suspect.”

Mary blinked and frowned a bit. She hadn’t thought of it that way and was forced to admit that he had a point. “But I’m not,” she protested again, with far less vehemence. She looked out at the dancing couples, feeling as removed from the room as she did at family dinners lately, like she wasn’t really there. “It’s this place. It seems like the proper time to say things like that and…and I want to say them. I want to be heard. All of these months it’s felt like no one could really see me or hear me. I’d speak and they’d nod and maybe say something back, but they never really heard what I was saying. I want my voice back. I want my life back.” The frustration welled up in her again and, despite the fact it was probably a bad idea, she downed the rest of her cocktail in one go. “And it’s not as if I want to do anything back there. Simply look at see if it’s as bad as upstairs.”

Barrow watched her, a small, private, somewhat sad smile lingering about his lips. “All right, that makes enough sense, I’ll believe you aren’t squiffy.” He looked at his watch. “But much as I’d love to show you around the shady underpinnings of London, maybe introduce you to a few girls I know, the rest of the family will not be sleeping in tomorrow, which means I should go. You’re a grown woman, you can make your own choices, but I really would suggest you come home with me.” The smile died and he gave her a very serious look. “We may all be in the same boat, but not everyone here is safe, if you don’t know what you’re doing. Sometimes they aren’t safe even if you do. And while I know you’re not one to run away with your tail between your legs, m’lady,” he finished his own drink and stood. “You’re not stupid about what risks you take either. Believe me when I say, yes, the back rooms are that bad, and let’s go.“

Mary hesitated. On the one hand, it felt like giving up to leave without having done anything more rebellious than have a few cocktails and talk to the butler. On the other hand, he was right. She was out of her depth and if something went wrong, she would be helpless to stop it here. This was not her world. Crushing out her cigarette in the ashtray in the middle of the table, she stood. “I left my coat by the door.”

The two of them made their way through the throng. While Mary shrugged into her coat, Barrow opened the door and said something to the doorman that she couldn’t hear. She assumed it was of little to no importance until she went to follow. While the doorman didn’t stop her, he did give her a rather unimpressed look. She frowned back, but didn’t say anything, waiting until they were half way up the stairs and therefore hopefully out of the man’s ear shot before asking, “What did you say to that man?”

Barrow spared her a quick, questioning glance over his shoulder, then continued unperturbed up the stairs. “The same thing I told the barman, that you were my employer’s daughter, here sightseeing.”

“He didn’t seem to like it.”

Barrow shrugged. “Not everyone does.” 

At a loss how to respond, Mary let it drop. The room at the top of the stairs was still empty and, as they left, a new man had taken up position at the end of the hallway. He didn’t so much bat an eyelash as the two of them left, either under the impression that if the doorman downstairs hadn’t bothered them, they weren’t worth the fuss, or that they’d actually been making use of the couch. The second possibility made Mary nearly choke with embarrassment, although if asked, she couldn’t have begun to explain why the thought of someone knowing where she had been (and possibly assuming she’d done a few things she hadn’t) was less upsetting than their thinking she’d been having sex with Barrow who, as far as they knew, was a reasonably high standing member of society. 

(They probably would not assume he was her husband as the entire point of places like that was for people to carry on affairs, but Barrow was perfectly good looking and unless one had a good grasp on fashion and good enough eyesight to price up the man’s suit in the low lighting of the hall, there was no reason to think he wasn’t at least a gentleman.) 

The temperature outside the club had dropped several degrees over the past hour, so even wrapped in her good winter coat, Mary shivered as she stepped through the door. Barrow noticed. “Are you warm enough, m’lady? I could give you my jacket, if you like.”

Whether it was proof that somewhere under the man’s famous prickly armor he was secretly a gentleman (the secret probably tucked next to his soft spot for the children) or simply the sign of a well trained servant being aware of his place, the offer made Mary smile. “No, I’ll be all right. I just wasn’t expecting it to be quite so cold.” She looked up and down the surprisingly crowded street. “I don’t fancy walking all the way home, though. Will we be able to get a cab?”

“Should be able to, although it might take a bit. You’d be amazed the number of people coming and going this time of night.”

“I already am,” Mary replied, practically stepping into him as a group of revelers who had clearly already been to a club or two pushed past on the sidewalk.

“Here, take my arm.” Barrow held out the appendage in question. “It’ll keep us from getting separated.” He leaned in as she took the suggestion and whispered, “Looks more natural anyway.”

Mary looked up at him, then around at the surrounding press of people, as if seeing everything for the first time. On some level, of course, she’d known that he was hiding things. It was only logical that a man like him would have to. Still, she had never stopped to wonder exactly how much he was hiding. Now, clinging to his arm as if they were a newly married couple, she suddenly realized what it was to lie to the world. The fact that there would be scandal if she was recognized, if the papers found out she was seen, strolling arm-in-arm with a man who was not her husband hit her with the same force as her sister calling her a slut and, years later, a bitch. She shivered and pressed closer to him, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than she remembered having felt in her life. Hadn’t Anna told her once that Barrow used to step out with Daisy, back before the war? She’d said it was just to torment William, but had that really been it? Or had there been a sense of security as well, another layer to the lies keeping him safe? Afraid that she was going to start crying for no apparent reason again if she kept up with that line of thought, she saw a black car round the corner and hissed, “There’s a cab. Hail it, quickly. I’m colder than I thought.”

Barrow automatically raised his hand, then stopped and dropped it again, as if someone had just shot at it. “That’s not a cab,” he hissed back. 

Mary looked again and saw that no, it wasn’t. Neither was the second black car that rounded the corner behind it.

“All right, nice and casual now, look over your shoulder,” Barrow instructed, his eyes trained ahead as the black cars passed. “Tell me what you see.”

Mary turned and looked, trying to make it seem as if she was looking for the other members of their party. “Two more police cars,” she reported back. “And they’re stopping directly in front of the club.”

Barrow nodded. “Right then. Don’t run, that’ll look suspicious, but walk as quickly as you can.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mary couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so wrung out. It took two blocks before they were able to hail a cab and she’d spent the entire time wanting to look over her shoulder, half expecting to see men in tall helmets chasing them down with sticks. By the time they were settled safely in the back seat, she was feeling shaky and faintly ill. Partially for the continued pretense that they were a couple, partially for the comfort, she leaned up against Barrow and rested her head on his shoulder. She didn’t even think to protest when he wrapped an arm around her.

The cab dropped them a block from Grantham House and at Barrow’s gentle prompting, they started off in the opposite direction from their destination. They walked arm in arm until the cab was out of sight, then dropped the pretense on the off chance someone’s servants looked out and saw them. Mary had grown up well aware that the opinions of the neighbors, of the country at large, was tantamount to her success or failure in life. After the affair with Mr. Pamuk, she’d stopped caring so much. Oh, not entirely, but she had survived, been forgiven by her family and Matthew, and slowly learned from watching others that the world was not as patent polished as she’d been lead to believe. It had given her a sense of something akin to invincibility. 

The past three months had weakened that. 

The past thirty minutes had shattered it. 

“Not so fast,” Barrow’s voice murmured from just behind her. She turned, trying to read his expression, but it was lost in the shadows cast by the lamplight and his hat. “Even if people see, they’re not likely to ask questions if we’re acting normal. Really, we’ve every right to be walking here, haven’t we?”

Mary wasn’t certain they did, if she was honest. She hadn’t felt like this much of a criminal when she was sneaking into Terence Sampson’s flat. Still, she fell back next to him. “How are we going to get into the house?”

“How do you mean?” 

“I can’t just go in the front door. Someone might see me and wonder why I’m out so late, or what I’m doing with you.”

“There’s no one to see you except the hall boys, m’lady,” he reminded her, his voice low and soothing. “And I’ll go around to the back. It’s your house, no one has any business questioning you.”

He was perfectly right, of course. She was being ridiculous. Paranoid. But she couldn’t help feeling that if she met with one of the hall boys just then, it would be the end of everything. She couldn’t face it. She’d simply sit down in the middle of the hall and give up. Then, whether her mother liked it or not, whether Henry ever came home or not, she would spend the rest of her life in an asylum. “I can’t,” she insisted. “Please, there has to be another way. I simply…I can’t right now.” She looked up at him, willing him to understand. On some level she knew she was not being at all clear, but she was starting to feel the lateness of the hour and the strain on her emotions. It made finding words difficult.

“I can’t go in through the front,” Barrow reasoned. “Anyone sees that and there will be all sorts of questions. And it will look stranger if someone sees you come in through the back than otherwise, but I suppose if we’re careful and I go first, we should be able to avoid everyone.” He looked at his watch. “Only other thing I can think of is staying out until the hall boys go to bed, but that won’t be for at least another hour.” 

“I can’t even think what we’d do for that long. Circle the block?” Mary shook her head. “No, we’ll have to go in through the back. I’m sorry, I know it’s an inconvenience, but whatever it is that’s wrong with me…I simply can’t.”

“All right then,” Barrow’s shoulders rose and fell, “We’ll go in together, but you stop just inside the door. I’ll make sure neither of the lads are downstairs, and we’ll work our way up in stages. If they run into me, I can always just say that I’m in late and doing a quick inspection before bed. I’ll be sure to speak so you can hear me and know to stay hidden. Might be a bit tricky when we hit the personal quarters, but we should be able to manage.”

Mary nodded, her back and shoulders relaxing. She hadn’t realized they were tense. “Thank you, Barrow.”

“I..well, just doing my duty, really,” he demurred, starting to walk again. 

Helping his employer’s daughter sneak into her own house at nearly two in the morning after narrowly missing being arrested did not strike Mary as being part of a butler’s standard duties, but she didn’t say anything. They headed for the back of the house, Mary struggling to keep her steps even and to not look over her shoulder at every sound. She felt guilty, somehow, as if it was her fault the police had shown up. The startled and wary looks she’d gotten all night played through her memory. “They’re going to think it was us, won’t they?”

“Who?” Barrow asked.

“The people at the club. The doormen and the bartender. The people who saw us talking. They’re going to think we were spies who called the police down on them.”

Barrow looked around, but there was no one else on the street. Still, he kept his voice quite low as he replied, “Not likely, m’lady. As I said, the sightseers are normally not a real danger. In fact, that might not even have been why the police were there. Clubs for normal people get raided too. They’re supposed to have licenses and such, and I’m not sure that place did. And even if the police do find their way downstairs, well, that’s why they allow mixed company, isn’t it? There’ll be an alarm as soon as the police come in upstairs and then you just switch dance partners quick like. By the time they’ve made it down, it just looks like an exclusive section of the club. Not foolproof, of course, but you can’t send a bloke to prison for two years for dancing with a girl.”

“I suppose you can’t, can you?” The assurance didn’t completely erase Mary’s anxiety.

Once inside the house they moved with extra caution through the downstairs, with Barrow stopping to stick his head into every room that might possibly be occupied. Everything was still, as it should be, and they began silently up the servant’s staircase to the upper floors. At first Barrow moved a considerable distance ahead, but after Mary stumbled a couple of times in the poor lighting, he moved back to catch her in case she fell. What light there was filtered in from outside and cast everything in pale blues and shadows so that the winding staircase (which Mary had barely glimpsed in her lifetime, let alone set foot on) seemed to go on forever. There was the sense that nothing was quite real and once or twice she had to repress the urge to reach out and touch her companion’s arm to make certain he was still there and she wasn’t following some sort of ghost. 

They slowed every time they approached a door and Barrow would listen for movement on the other side. Once or twice he cracked one and put his eye to the opening, although unless he had the eyesight of a cat, Mary didn’t see how he could see anything. Then again, she supposed the hall boys and maids moved around the house after dark, so they had to have some means of getting about without tripping and breaking their necks. Finally, they reached the floor that housed Mary’s bedroom. This time Mary stood on the landing for a good long time while Barrow scouted ahead. She was beginning to think he must have run into someone by the time he tapped on the door, slid it open and whispered, “All clear.”

She still hesitated in the doorway, peering around as if someone, her father, maybe, or Carson might suddenly appear. (She chided herself for being utterly ridiculous. Carson was back in Yorkshire, for crying out loud.) When the hall remained vacant except for her and Barrow, standing a little ways off beckoning, she slid through and followed him the short distance to her bedroom 

“Here we are, then, m’lady.” He opened the door for her, soundlessly, as only a servant could manage.

Again, Mary started forward only to come to a shuddering stop. Everything was so still, in the moonlight it reminded her of a tomb. She took a step back into the hallway.

“Now what?” Barrow asked, peering into the room himself. For the first time, there was something like impatience in his voice. 

“It’s so empty,” Mary whispered, explaining as best she could, which wasn’t very well. “So lonely. It…it just makes me want Henry.”

There was a sigh in the darkness. “We can’t just stand here all night,” Barrow argued. A moment later he slipped into the room himself. “Here, see? It’s not empty anymore. I’m here. I’m not Mr. Talbot, but I’m someone, so it’s not empty.” He glanced around the room, then added, coaxing, “Anna’s left a pitcher of water and a glass next to the bed. Would probably do you good. Why don’t you come in and have some?” 

The coaxing did the trick. With a deep breath, Mary shut her eyes and stepped across the doorway. She stood in the middle of her room, eyes still shut, just breathing, until she heard the softest click behind her, a noise that would have been lost if the world hadn’t been so still. Then she opened them and turned around.

Somehow, she was not surprised to find that Barrow was still there, watching her warily. “Better, m’lady?”

“I think so,” she nodded. “At least a little. I should probably have some of that water, though.”

“Have a seat.” He stepped to the bedside and poured the water. Despite the fact that he’d probably meant for her to sit in one of the chairs, she sat on the edge of the bed, watching the water flow into the glass. He started a little when he turned and found her so close, but he didn’t spill a drop, and his voice was unruffled as ever. “Here we are then,” he smiled in the half light as he handed her the drink. “Shall I fetch Anna to help you change for the night? I can simply say I was up and you rang for her.”

Mary shook her head. “I told her not to wait up. I can get dressed for bed myself.” She went to sip the water and realized her hand was shaking.

“Can you, m’lady?” Barrow asked. “That is, I’m not trying to be impertinent, but you’re clearly a bit overwrought just now.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“No,” he replied, sinking into a sort of crouch in front of her. It was not the respectful stance he should have maintained, but it brought them closer to eye level. “I said before you were reminding me of soldiers in the trenches. That’s still true. More so, even.” He shook his head. “People talk about it and they make it sound like every man out there was a hero, bravely facing down the German guns without a thought for their own safety. It wasn’t like that at all. Oh, those men existed, I’ll grant you, but the rest? We were scared for our lives, convinced we’d never see home again. Some men made it. Some men broke. A lot of men died before they got to figure out which sort they were.” He looked down at his gloved hand and Mary faintly wondered which group he considered himself to be in. “You’ve been through a lot, m’lady. I don’t know that I understand it all, but I understand enough to know you’ve a right to scared, as much right as any of us ever did.” He smiled at her, “The lucky part is that you’re safe, you just haven’t realized it yet. Like the blokes who came home and spent weeks, sometimes even months, waking up and expecting to hear gunfire. One way or another you’ll stop holding your breath when the post comes and looking over your shoulder for the police eventually.”

“You won’t. You’re always looking over your shoulder, aren’t you?”

“I’m used to it,” Barrow shrugged, although he dropped his eyes back to his injured hand. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t have as many problems, after I got home. I was so used to the world being against me that it wasn’t as big a shift. Don’t get me wrong,” he hastily added, “The trenches were worse. The trenches were much worse. Only, I may have been better conditioned to recover from it, or something. Who knows? At least it all helped me realize that things could generally be worse than they are.” 

“Does that really help?” Mary asked. Looking down at him, washed out and pale, reminded her entirely too much of standing in his room in the attic, looking at him propped up against the pillows with his wrists bandaged.

He was silent for a long moment before he murmured, “Some days. Not always.”

Mary sipped her water, watching the shift in his expression in the shadows. The sense of unreality settled in again. It seemed as if she was watching him from another world, but from this world she thought she understood him a bit better. She wondered if he hadn’t gone to war before the rest of the country, conscripted for a fight that he hadn’t wanted, started by men who would never truly see him as a person. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

That startled him. He flat out stared at her, expression utterly bemused . “What was that for?”

“For everything,” she shrugged. “For finding me tonight and helping me, even though I gave you every reason to leave me to fend for myself. For bringing me home. For listening.” She laughed, a helpless little laugh. “While we’re at it, for being sweet to the children, for not murdering us all in our sleep when you were a footman, which I’m certain you must have wanted to do at some point or other.” She reached down and gently touched the back of his wrist, wondering if there were still visible scars on the other side. “For not dying, even when you wanted to. All of it.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then gave a soft huff of laughter. “You know, Anna told me once, after Jimmy - James - left that everyone needs to be special to someone. Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps that’s why I’ve had so many difficulties over the years. Perhaps not. But I’m starting to think, even more than that, what everyone really needs is someone to understand them.”

“You really are lonely, aren’t you, Barrow? And it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t help matters,” he murmured. Whether he was aware of it or not, the mask was gone, leaving him looking lost.

Helpless.

Hurting.

Everything that Mary had been feeling so strongly for the past three months of her life.

Unable to think of anything to say, she leaned forward and kissed him a second time.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was digging into the skin behind Mary’s ear in a most uncomfortable manner. Rolling over with a groan, she rubbed at the spot only to discover that she still had her earrings in. The pain had been the hook pressing into her. Blinking, she frowned up at the ceiling and tried to gather her faculties. It seemed like something, or someone, was missing that should have been there. Henry was, of course, the immediate, obvious answer, but somehow that didn’t seem right. She turned her head to look at the pillow next to her and found that, yes, it was vacant, as expected. Rumpled, as if slept on, but that would have been her own tossing in the night.

So why did she feel like there should be someone else there?

The sun was making its way through the crack in the curtains, indicating that she had slept in rather late. The room smelled of welcoming woodsmoke and she could hear the crackle of the fire, promising that no matter how cold it was outside, the efforts of the staff would keep her warm. The thought of the scullery maid (Ginny? Or maybe Gladys? It was so hard to keep track of the lower staff. They rarely stayed more than a few years) brought to mind Anna. She supposed she ought to get up and summon the other woman, to get going about her day.

Of course, Anna would ask her about her night and that would mean making something up to explain…

With a gasp, as if waking from a nightmare, Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. The sheets and bedspread slid from her shoulders, folding in her lap. She was not, despite what she had told her maid before stepping out, wearing a nightgown. Her dress from the night before was lying in a rather haphazard manner on the end of the bed, threatening to fall off. (Anna would be most put out if it was wrinkled.) She had no idea where her headband had gotten off to, but her necklace lay on the nightstand, next to a partially empty glass of water and a pitcher. 

Shivering despite the warmth from the fire, she pulled the bedclothes back up to her neck and stared numbly at nothing in particular. What had she done? Why had she done it? She hadn’t been drunk, she was certain. Maybe it would have been wiser to have stopped at two cocktails. Maybe three had taken her to the limit of her sobriety, but she hadn’t gone over. 

Had she really been that lonely? That rattled by the brush with the police?

Had he? Or had he simply seen an opportunity and, despite all natural inclination otherwise, taken it? 

She drew her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, clenching her eyes shut and pressing them against her knees. How many times had she been told that Barrow was untrustworthy? That he held things over people? She’d never been on the receiving end, of course, he wasn’t that stupid. Now though? Now she had placed herself entirely in his power. He could ruin her life, if he wanted to. He could tell the papers, her parents.

If he survived, he could tell Henry.

How, even with everything falling apart around her, could she have been so stupid?

And she couldn’t tell anyone. Even Anna, faithful, loyal Anna who had been like a third sister (and more loyal than Edith for most of their life) would think her insane. At the very least, given Barrow’s well known proclivities, she would write it off as an impossible dream. It felt like a dream. Mary wanted more than anything for it to actually have been a dream, but she was awake now and given the state of her bed, her clothes, and herself, there was no way she could pretend it was anything but reality.

Drawing in a long, deep breath, she raised her head. Falling apart was not going to help anything. She was Lady Mary Crawley. She had been through worse. She had survived worse. She could, she would, survive this, even if she had to do it on her own.

(All she wanted was someone to hold her and take some of the burden.)

She threw off the covers and walked to her wardrobe, fishing out her nightgown and donning it as much for her own comfort as anything. She picked up her dress and draped it over the back of her dressing table chair (Anna still probably wouldn’t appreciate the careless handling, but at least it would look as if she’d tried). Her undergarments were retrieved from where they had fallen and consigned to a pile next to her wardrobe. Her headband had, somehow, wound up on the floor on the far side of the bed. She put it and the necklace in their place and removed her earrings. All the while, she refused to think about anything. Henry. Barrow. Secret clubs. All of it. It was only when her room was put more or less to rights that she felt pulled together enough to face things.

She had to tell someone. If she didn’t, she was certain she really would run mad. The only people she could talk to were Barrow, who was probably the last person she should be speaking to right now, and Anna. If he came home, she’d have to tell Henry, of course, but she’d worry about that when it happened. (If it happened? When it happened.) And what was the worst that could happen? Anna thought she was dreaming? Thought she was insane? The woman who had helped her carry a dead body through the halls of Downton was not going to report her to her parents over this. 

If nothing else, a hot, bracing cup of tea was always good for clearing the head. While she wasn’t overly hungry, a bite of breakfast couldn’t go amiss either. Mind made up, she rung the bell and, for appearance sake, she made to climb back into bed. 

Something caught on her foot, something long and soft and mostly hidden by the bedspread dragging on the floor. Frowning, she bent over and picked it up. It turned out to be Barrow’s tie.

She stared at it for a moment, then, with a heartfelt sigh, sat on the edge of the bed with an utter lack of grace that her governess and grandmother both would have scolded her for. She wound the tie loosely around her hand and wondered. What was he doing now? Plotting to blackmail her? Picking the wine for dinner? Playing with the children?

Questioning his own sanity, much as she was questioning hers?

Laying down, she pulled the bedclothes over her and tucked her hand and the tie under her pillow. None of it had been a dream, not the ending, but not the beginning either. From the moment they’d met, he’d held all of the cards. He could have left when she threatened him (and really, she had threatened him, not the other way around). Instead he’d listened, hadn’t he? He’d listened like Anna and her own family had not. He’d seemed to understand. He’d let her cling to him when she’d been scared. He’d gone out of his way, with only minimal protest, even though they both knew it was ridiculous, to help her sneak into her own house.

In the end, she didn’t even remember him leaving.

Despite the years and warnings to the contrary, she couldn’t imagining the man who had shepherded her through his cold, unfeeling world turning around and using it all to his advantage. 

Closing her eyes, she worked her hand free from the tie, leaving the length of fabric hidden. She wouldn’t tell Anna, she decided. Not yet. Not until Barrow gave her reason.

* * *

The downstairs of Grantham House was a much different place in the daylight hours than at night. Even at partial staff, it seemed warm, alive, and full of purpose, a far cry from the eerie emptiness of the earliest hours. For a moment Mary simply stood and listened to the sounds of chatter and work, filtering from the kitchen, the boot room, and the servant’s hall. She might have stood there longer, but Mrs.Coates, the new housekeeper, came out of her sitting room and spotted her.

There was a moment of surprise, then the housekeeper schooled her expression into a bright, if somewhat strained, smile. “Is there something you need, m’lady?” she asked, all prim manners, as if there were nothing in the world wrong, even if they both knew differently (Mary had to remind herself that the other woman didn’t know everything, even if it felt like the entire house must know).

“No, Mrs. Coates,” Mary assured her, affecting a smile of her own with the ease of long practice. “I simply wished to have a word with Barrow before Mama and I stepped out. Do you know where he is?”

“In his pantry, last I checked m’lady.”

With a nod of thanks, Mary walked past the housekeeper to the room in question. Taking a deep breath she assured herself that he was probably going over the wine list or the books (or calculating how much he could get out of her or wondering if he shouldn’t take another run at ending it all) and knocked. There was a prompt-if-muffled ‘Come in’ and she pushed her way into the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

Barrow, previously seated behind his desk with an official looking book in front of him, shot up like a startled rabbit. For a hair’s breadth the whites of his eyes showed around nearly the entire iris, then he blinked and his face settled into it’s normal, pleasant mask. No matter how he tried, though (and Mary was certain he was trying), he couldn’t disguise the tension in his voice as he greeted her. “Lady Mary. What can I do for you?”

Not plotting to blackmail her, then. “Nothing really,” she replied, her earlier fears quieting. “I was just going out and thought I should return this first.” Reaching under her jacket, she pulled out the tie and held towards him.

For a moment, he lost all colour and went completely still, like a mouse that has seen a snake and thinks that if it just doesn’t breathe the reptile won’t realize it’s there. Then, slowly, not meeting her gaze, he reached out to retrieve the wayward article of clothing. “I guess that really wasn’t a dream then, was it?”

“It would seem not.”

He raised his head again, now firmly in control of his features. With the dignity of a soldier facing execution he asked, “Shall I start packing, then, m’lady?”

Mary shook her head. She was well aware that she should say yes. Had anyone else advised her, they would have told her to get the potential threat that was Thomas Barrow as far away from her as possible. But something about Barrow had resonated with Mary for years, maybe not from the moment he arrived at Downton, but at least since the Spanish Flu. If she kicked him out over this, then yes, she could expect repercussions. She could expect him to reach into his sleeve and start playing the nastiest cards he could find, just as when she’d set him on Lord Sinderby’s odious butler. And she wouldn’t be able to blame him. After all, it was exactly what she would have done in his place. “No,” she replied, taking a care to keep her voice low. She doubted any of the current staff would eavesdrop, but she knew as well as anyone how easy it was to overhear things. “I simply thought you might want your tie back and, I don’t know. I suppose some part of me wanted to see if you remembered it all too or if I was really going crazy.”

“If you are, it makes both of us,” Barrow assured. He was clearly trying to make a joke of it, but his strained smile as much as said he really was questioning both of their sanity, at least a little. He looked down at the tie and gave a humorless little chuckle. “Funny, I spent God alone knows how many minutes hunting up my collar and I didn’t even think about this.”

“That seems in keeping with the night,” Mary allowed with a shrug. “Although, speaking of leaving, the maid who lights the fires. Had you gone by the time she…?”

Barrow nodded. “Well before, and after the hall boys were in bed. There was no one to see me, and even if they had, it wouldn’t have been before I made it all the way upstairs. There might have been some questions, but nothing I couldn’t come up with an answer for.”

“Thank God.” Mary closed her eyes and shook her head. At herself. At him. At the unimaginable, unreasoning mess that was her life. At the world in general. “What were we thinking?”

“I don’t know, m’lady,” he confessed. “To be honest, I’m not certain we were.” With another of those chuckles, he added, “It just figures, I finally do something normal and I still make a hash of it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Mary’s own levity was decidedly forced. “According to the gossip papers, we seem to have done a fairly proper job of things. If anything, I’m sure they would criticize the lack of incriminating evidence.”

That earned a soft, derisive snort. “They want a story, let ‘em work for it. After all,” a smile flickered across his lips, “neither of us are known for making things easy.”

“No, we most assuredly are not.” Mary almost smiled in return. Then she glanced at her watch. “I should be going. Mama wanted to do some shopping. Good day, Barrow.”

“Good day, m’lady.”

Mary moved towards the door, then half turned and looked back. “I want you to know that I meant what I said last night. I truly am grateful. For everything.”

There was a brief hesitation, then he graced her with a genuine smile. “I know m’lady. And for what it’s worth, I meant what I said too. Whatever happens, even if Mr. Talbot doesn’t come home, and I hope he does, of course, but if he doesn’t, you can pull through. You’re stronger than anyone knows.”

“Thank you, Barrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generally my OCs don't resemble real people, living or dead. Mrs. Coates is, somewhat ironically, an exception. For a physical reference, see the late Rosalie Crutchley in The Man of La Mancha, 1972.


	5. Epilogue

_December, 1926_

“It won’t be overnight, of course, but it will allow us to start selling new cars,” Henry finished explaining the result of his month in America.

“More importantly, it will allow us to import American cars that no one else has access to yet,” Tom chimed in over his soup. “And working directly with the manufacturer brings us a step closer to manufacturing ourselves.”

“Golly,” Edith sounded duly impressed. “And here the most exciting thing I have to announce is a new printer!”

Her husband smiled and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t say that’s our most exciting announcement.”

Edith blushed. “Everyone already knows about that, Bertie.”

Mary smirked and sipped at her wine. “So,” she asked, playfully, “Have you started talking about names?”

“If it’s a boy we’re naming him Peter,” Bertie’s answer came almost before she’d finished the question. “We’re still debating girl’s names, but we’ve decided that much.”

“What does your mother think of the idea?” Robert asked, eying his son-in-law as if he’d just announced that he was going to start raising tigers.

“She hates it,” the Marquess of Hexham replied, as calmly as if he was predicting the weather. “We’re doing it anyway.”

“Good for you.” Mary was tempted to applaud, but she had a wine glass in her hand, so she refrained. Instead she slid her free hand under the table into her husband’s, squeezing and giving him a sly, sideways smile. The evening after her rather eventful night out, word had come that Henry was out of the woods and would be heading home soon. A little over a week later he’d come walking through the door and into the arms of the happiest woman in London. The melancholy that had plagued her for months did not vanish immediately, but it lessened and by the start of December had gone completely. Now, Mary sat gauging the conversation, choosing her timing and her words carefully. “Well, we’ll have to be certain to scratch Peter from our own list, won’t we Henry? Two in one year would be a bit much.”

“You know I want my first son to be Charles anyway,” Henry answered, fighting to keep a straight face, but unable to quite contain the excited glow in his eyes.

As Mary might have predicted, her father looked more or less baffled by the turn in the conversation. Her mother, on the other hand, did not need it spelled out any further. “Another?” she asked, her face lighting up as if the King had pronounced a year of Christmases. “Oh goodness, when is this one going to be born? Please tell me it’s not the same time, I can’t possibly be in two places at once!”

Mary laughed. “Don’t worry, Mama, even if this one is as early as George, you should have a month to get home from Brancaster without missing anything.”

“Wait, you’re pregnant?” Robert asked, finally catching up.

“As if there’s any surprise there,” Tom smirked into his wine glass, casting a sideways look at the new parents-to-be. 

Mary blushed, but smiled defiantly at him. Her joyous greeting of her husband had not stopped at the door, it was quite true, and conversations with Anna had told her that everyone in the house assumed they knew how far the celebrations had gone. They might be surprised to know how much of the time the reunited couple had spent simply curled in each other’s arms, whispering sweet nothings if they’d bothered to say anything at all, but the announcement of a new addition to the family would certainly not be a shock to anyone. Even her father, now that he’d put two and two together, did not seemed surprised to find out that the answer was four.

Only her grandmother did not seem delighted by the announcement. “Does this mean we’re going to lose you for another six months?” she asked, eying her granddaughter as if she might suddenly collapse like a souffle.

“It was only three months this time, Granny,” Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. “And I hope not. Still, even if I do get down around the mouth again, this time we know that the answer is apparently London and distraction and Henry is not going anywhere.”

“I most certainly am not,” her husband agreed fervently. 

“Well, I say this calls for a toast!” Robert announced, making up for his earlier slowness with a broad smile and a gesture for Barrow to refill the wine glasses. 

Tom leaned over and whispered in Mary’s ear, “I think Donk is excited.”

Mary laughed. She would have replied, something clever and witty about how her father always came around eventually, but she glanced across the table just as Barrow was straightening from refilling her mother’s wine glass and their eyes met. For a heartbeat they stared at each other, her smile flickering, then he moved on to the next glass and she turned her face back to Henry. The two of them hadn’t spoken about that night since the morning after. It had existed only in the occasional awkward pause and averted eyes when they met by accident in the hallway. 

(She had received a letter from Lorena apologizing for the missed appointment. As Barrow had predicted, rehearsal had run long and she’d had several choice things to say about her director. Mary forgave her, but didn’t have the heart to see her again.)

Now she placed her hand on her stomach and deliberately avoided looking at the butler when he came past to refill her glass. The baby was Henry’s. It had to be. The odds were one in a million against it. Still, she thought, she would not be unhappy if the child looked like her.


End file.
